When It's Time
by mhathairamhain
Summary: Ben Jones always thought he'd stay in Midsomer until the day he died. Sometimes life has other plans.
1. Chapter 1

Notes:

This story was triggered by the departure of Jason Hughes from Midsomer Murders; _Schooled in Murder_ was the final episode Jason filmed, and he announced his decision to leave the show after filming, therefore precluding the possibility of Ben Jones receiving a proper send-off/departure.

The storyline was triggered solely by one reaction in one scene: Ben's face and body language when he says he is going to join the search for Poppy Ordish.

It has also given me the opportunity to write some back story for Ben Jones, which I've wanted to do for a while, but didn't want to write a biography.

**CHAPTER 1**

The dinner had been lovely. It wasn't quite the same as the meals he'd shared with Tom, Joyce and, from time to time, Cully, but he was pleased to be included and welcomed. That his boss was a more than reasonable cook was also a surprise though, Ben realised later, it shouldn't have been. Tom had also been an excellent cook, even if Ben had believed it was out of necessity; clearly the matriarchs of the Barnaby clan had been determined that their menfolk would be self–sufficient.

He _had_ been a little surprised that he and Kate were the only guests. Surely after two years in Midsomer, Sarah, if not John, had befriended others? Sarah had known her school colleagues longer than either she or John had known Kate, and as long as she'd known Ben. _Ah, it's their choice. _When he looked at his own situation, he found he would be hard pressed to choose dinner guests other than those he'd just passed the evening with.

There had been a downside to the evening. After the third bottle of wine it had become clear that Sarah was also using the occasion to match–make. Ben liked Kate, but only as a friend, and not necessarily a 'good' friend, and he certainly wasn't in a frame of mind to play along with Sarah's hopes. Sure, he had thought about it but, in the cold light of day, Kate just wasn't his type. Thankfully, Kate was in agreement with him and had rolled her eyes when Sarah was focused on Ben; he'd had to bite his lip hard so as not to laugh while Sarah was talking to him.

Later, in the kitchen with John and Sykes, John had apologised for Sarah.

"She'd never admit it, but she always gets a little sentimental around our anniversary; thinks everyone should be as settled and happy as we are. She tried to match up the school registrar with the Head of Math last year. I only found out when the registrar came into the station demanding I get Sarah off his back."

"And did you?"

John nodded, a satisfied smile on his face.

"How? I think it would be safe bet that you didn't tell Mrs Barnaby to 'back off'."

"Not exactly, but I did tell her the truth."

"Which was?"

"The registrar's gay—and has a partner," John chuckled. "Sarah was mortified that she hadn't noticed. Not only was she frantically apologising to him and trying not to upset him further, she then had to go to the teacher and discreetly explain to her. She tip–toed around for a couple of weeks; I had hoped it would have taught her a lesson, but ..." He peered through to the living room where Kate and Sarah were deep in discussion. "... clearly not."

Ben turned around, just in time to catch Sarah looking up and frowning.

"Will you be in trouble if she finds out you told me?" Ben tried not to grin too widely at the thought of Sarah's reaction.

"Probably. More wine?"

Ben had walked home—alone, again—and spent several introspective hours on the couch, nursing a large whiskey. He reflected on his life—where he'd been and where he was going. When John was his age he and Sarah had already been married five years, and had been together for over ten. What did Ben have? A series of relationships that had ultimately fizzled out. Yes, some had lasted longer than others, and a couple had had the potential to go further, except Ben had rather high standards when it came to honesty and trust. Honesty was a given and trust was earned, and it worked both ways. At least that's what Ben believed. Was it really so hard to expect?

Oh well, it wasn't as though he'd had the love of his life and lost her to someone else, was it? Maybe he was destined to stay a bachelor like his cousin Geraint. Ben had to admit he did envy Geraint. Not because of his Double First from Oxford, which had lead to his thriving law practice, but because he owned a small farm, from which he ran a dog rescue service focusing on large and working dogs. Ben never really understood how he managed to keep both aspects of his life running along smoothly, but he did.

Apart from one not–so–recent visit and two letters a year to his Granny Jones, and a steady email exchange with Geraint, Ben had given little thought to his father's family over the years. And, honestly, why would he? His father had been sent to jail when he was three for armed robbery, and all the family—except for Granny Jones and his uncle—had blamed his mother, accusing her of forcing him into desperate measures to support her and wee Ben. The abuse was so great that she'd eventually fled back to Midsomer and her family, taking young Ben with her.

Ben had learnt the full story shortly before his tenth birthday, when his father showed up on their doorstep in Dunstan, begging his mother to come back to Cardiff. He'd been frightened by the thin, dark man and he knew his mother was uncertain. Yet they'd packed up and left within the week, back to a family and a city Ben didn't know. They'd left so quickly Ben had only been able to say goodbye to Mark and Jack Purdy, as everyone else was away on summer holidays.

His father's family had been kind to Ben, if not to his mother. His grandfather had taken him to the local boxing club to give him an outlet, and he'd also been taken to a professional match to see Teddy Molloy box. However, with his mother's blessing, he'd spent much of his free time at his uncle's house, having found a friend in his cousin, Geraint, and, although they were never _really_ close, they'd kept in touch over the years. Ben smiled fondly as he remembered part of his time there; while he'd never picked up the language beyond a few school yard insults, his Uncle had taught him to recite _O Myfanwy_ in several languages, including Welsh, and he and Geraint would drive their teachers to distraction in class.

In the end, his time in Cardiff was short-lived, as his parents separated within two years, ultimately divorcing, and his mother took him back to Midsomer. When his mother died a couple of years after their return, Ben was given the choice to return to Wales and his father. He chose to stay with his grandparents in Midsomer Parva, as this was where he felt safest. Despite all the changes, he'd managed to keep in contact with his granny and Geraint, only drifting out of contact after he left school. After graduating from Hendon, he'd done everything he could to be posted to the Midsomer Constabulary, because he wanted to give back to the community that was so important to him. It took several years before a vacancy came up, when the newly appointed DI Troy moved to Middlesborough. Once he was settled in Causton, and at his gran's urging, he'd reconnected with Granny Jones and Geraint. He really believed he was where he was meant to be, doing what he was destined to do, with people he cared about.

But now Ben was discontent. He still liked what he did, but he no longer loved it, and it didn't feel enough to sustain him anymore. After a rocky start, he'd fallen into a reasonably comfortable pattern with John, but there was something missing. He still felt the loss of Tom and Joyce deeply; they had, in a small way, become the parents he no longer had, with their kindnesses and gentle guidance. John and Sarah were more like distant cousins, and he missed the sense of family that had nurtured and comforted him during his and Tom's more difficult cases.

Of his own family here, he only had his gran left. She'd celebrated her ninetieth on her last birthday and was still as sharp as a tack, but she was beginning to slow down and continually encouraging Ben to settle down. As the only grandchild he'd occasionally regretted he'd never been in a position to make her a great-grandmother, and knew it was probably too late now. He wasn't even sure he wanted to be a father, as much as he liked kids; he'd seen too much as a police officer, was too aware of all the dangers that faced kids today. Sometimes he had enough trouble taking care of his own needs, and the thought of having to constantly consider two other people—if there was a child, there would be a mother—had given him nightmares on more than one occasion.

Geraint had the right idea; he channelled his need to nurture and care into the thirty or so dogs he regularly had in the refuge. What could Ben do? What did he want to do?

He'd been a policeman most of his adult life. He'd dabbled in a few hobbies, but nothing he could make a career of—or a living from. He was too old to retrain for anything, or consider University—wasn't he? John would probably be able to give him some idea, but asking John would mean telling him he wanted to leave.

_I want to leave._

In the middle of all his wool–gathering and reminiscing, Ben realised with a jolt that, for the first time in his life, he was seriously considering leaving Midsomer, packing up and walking away from his career, his friends and everything he knew and trusted.

Ben sank lower in the couch, his chin dropping to his chest as his eyes closed. A sad sigh escaped as the reality sat heavily within him; with almost sickening clarity, Ben knew that he _would_ leave Midsomer, and it would be sooner rather than later. He just wished he could understand why. But then, maybe there was no concrete why, perhaps it just was.

He was too tired to think about it clearly now, however, the one image that was sharp in his mind was the face of Beatrix Ordish when Poppy was missing. He'd faced his fair share of lost and abducted kids, dealt compassionately with kids who were witnesses or otherwise affected by crimes within their families and communities, and arrested more teenagers than he cared to remember. He had never had to deal with a child murder victim.

Was _that_ the bottom line? He'd been a police officer for over eighteen years, the past seven in CID—that he hadn't seen a child victim was sheer luck and his luck would run out one day. It could have been this week; it could have been Poppy.

Ben forced himself to stand up, to move. He didn't have work tomorrow; he'd sleep on it, maybe email Geraint and get his perspective. As a criminal lawyer, he too had seen more than his share of the evil men do as well. Perhaps he could shed some light on Ben's discontent.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

Morning brought with it a mild headache, but no clarity or resolution. Ben flicked through the Sunday paper, taking nothing in, and his cup of tea went cold as he tried to find the source of his restlessness. Shoving the paper to one side, he picked up his phone and started writing an email to Geraint.

After twenty minutes of tapping and deleting, he called Geraint instead.

It took three phone calls, some hurried explanations, and the calling in of two favours, but by noon Sunday Ben was on the road to Wales, and to Geraint's property on the outskirts of Caerphilly. He still had no answers, only the offer of a week's accommodation at the dog refuge in exchange for some dog-walking duties, 'to help clear your mind'. Geraint could have told him he'd be spending the week cleaning up after the dogs and he wouldn't have cared; a week to leave Midsomer behind and to try and work out what was going on in his head was his idea of bliss right now.

He'd told John that Granny Jones was unwell, and that this might be his last opportunity to see her. It wasn't a lie; she'd been admitted to a hospice a couple of months earlier, and although Ben had paid a flying visit over a weekend at the time, he hadn't been back since—it _may_ very well be his last chance.

Apart from a traffic snarl outside Swindon, Ben had a fairly straight run and found himself pulling up in front of the farmhouse shortly before three in the afternoon.

Geraint was waiting for him, with two very eager border collies fidgeting at his feet. A little to the left and behind him was a tall, broad man; Ben thought he looked to be in his sixties. Geraint introduced him as Huw, his farm manager. Huw took Ben's bag and disappeared into the house and Geraint beckoned Ben to follow him. From the back of a truck he produced a pair of wellies, handing them to Ben. With a word from Geraint, the dogs sat patiently while Ben changed his shoes.

"Are _they_ rescued dogs?" Ben could see nothing wrong with either animal; bright–eyed and obedient they followed Geraint's movements carefully, waiting for their next command.

"Aye, farmer who bought them in called them 'useless'. This one, Holly..." Geraint indicated the smaller of the two, "...gets over-excited and barks too much, and this one, Mick..." he rubbed the other dog's head "...is scared of cattle. Both behaviours are liabilities. So they came to me."

Boots on, Geraint passed both leads to Ben, who now found himself the focus of the dogs' attention. "Follow me, Ben." Geraint headed away from the house.

They walked down a stony path which disappeared into a wood. Geraint stopped, his arm sweeping across the landscape. "The path splits into a loop a short way inside the wood. It doesn't matter which way you go, it'll bring you back to where you started." Ben thought it sounded like a metaphor for his life. Geraint continued, "It's about four miles, you'll need to walk in those boots, but far better than the shoes you were wearing. Tomorrow you can walk, jog, or run, it's up to you. When you get back, there'll be tea in the kitchen and the water'll be hot for a shower; looking at those clouds, you'll probably need it."

The skies had lowered considerably in the short time since Ben had arrived, but he thought the woods looked dense enough to ward off the worst of what the skies would most likely throw down. With waved thanks to Geraint, Ben headed down the path without thought or question, the dogs trotting happily behind him.

The solitude and the lack of conversation were a surprising relief. Occasionally one of the dogs would nudge his hand, receiving a kind word and a scratch behind the ear for their trouble. A rabbit scooting across the path saw Ben forced into a shuffling jog when Holly attempted to take off at full–pelt, barking excitedly. Ben let her sniff around the hole near the base of an old oak for a few minutes as he listened to the rain start to fall against the canopy overhead. He'd been right; it was dense enough to provide reasonable shelter, but if they didn't get a move on they would get eventually get soaked.

Not knowing where he was relative to the halfway point of the loop, Ben kept moving forward. The dogs didn't seem to mind the occasional shower from the leaves, and his coat was keeping him relatively warm and dry. The dogs pressed forward at a steady rate, and he followed willingly at their pace. He let his mind wander where it would, startled when it dragged out a fragment of long forgotten O-level poetry

_Sheep dogs cannot turn her course,  
They slumber on with paws across.  
In the farm she passes no-one wakes,  
But a jug in the bedroom gently shakes.  
_  
He sensed they were near the end of the path when the dogs picked up their pace for no other apparent reason. He trundled along as fast as the slightly–too–large boots would let him until, rounding a corner, he saw where the path rejoined itself. The rain had an easier time of it here and the pathway was heavily puddled. The dogs splashed straight through, pulling Ben with them. And he laughed. Cold, muddy water had splashed down inside his boots, his trousers were mud-splattered and his head wet—and he laughed because his heart was the lightest it had felt in weeks.

As he approached the house, Huw emerged with an umbrella and gathered up the two leads from Ben.

"I'll take these two back to the kennels; you go on inside. Bathroom's at the top of the stairs and the water's hot. Drop your boots by the front door. Oh, and you'll find towels on the hall table."

Before Ben could thank him, Huw was jogging towards the stables, where the kennels had been set up, the dogs bounding ahead of him.

Ben decided a shower had never felt so good, not even after a ducking in an icy pond. It wasn't just the exercise—Ben jogged most days—it was the sense of letting go of everything that normally weighed on him. He couldn't remember the last time he felt he could really relax; even on his days off, in a constabulary the size of Midsomer, there was always the possibility of being called in. It really was his own fault; not seeing the appeal of travelling as much as some of his colleagues, when he did take holidays he usually stayed at home and, because he chose to keep his eyes and ears open, he never really got away from the job, never _really_ had a break.

Leaving everything behind was the oddest feeling—and he liked it.

After showing Ben around the house and grounds, Huw and Ben sat down with tea and scones (kindly supplied by the local publican's wife) and Huw explained how the refuge worked, and what Ben would be expected to do as a dog walker. Ben would be responsible for four dogs this week, Holly and Mick, who he'd already walked, and Beau and Cooper, a pair of bull mastiffs who'd outgrown their home. All the dogs had to be walked once every day. It didn't matter when, just as long as they were walked.

"You'll want to walk Beau and Cooper separately," Huw intoned, "unless you fancy a dislocated shoulder. The other dogs'll get walked by the 'volunteers'."

"Volunteers?" Ben mentally rolled his eyes at himself. _Volunteers and donations, like most rescue services—of course that was how Geraint did it.  
_  
"Mostly people on Community Service Orders, some kids from the university, and other assorted folks. Half my day can be taken up signing forms and checking attendances. But, we can't afford to pay anyone on a regular basis, and someone has to keep the kennels clean and the dogs fed, watered 'n' exercised until they find a home."

Huw chuckled. "Hope Geraint didn't get you down here telling you it'd be a holiday?" Ben shook his head, grinning. "You'll be up by six_—_the dogs' barking'll make certain of that_—_but you should sleep well. You cook?"

"I get by. Nothing fancy but it's not all beans on toast and microwave meals."

"Well then, kitchen's all yours; me, I take me main meal at the pub, but you do what suits you best." Huw pushed himself out of the chair with a groan. "I'd best be moving; those dogs'll not feed themselves." With a nod, Huw left Ben to settle in.

When Huw eventually returned, just after eight, Ben was looking through old photo albums he'd found in the sitting room.

"Those belonged to the Bennetts; this used to be their farm until the old man died. His son sold up and emigrated. All that history lost; five generations forgotten." Huw poured a large brandy and settled into the other wing-back chair, the old leather creaking as he settled himself. He began to talk, and Ben settled back to listen. He'd always loved to listen to the stories his grandfather told and he suspected Huw had some good ones.

And that was how his week passed: up at six, and out with the first of the mastiffs before eight, a break for tea at eleven, lunch after one and a visit to Granny Jones, before a round with the border collies and dinner after six. He spent his evenings with Huw, joining him at the pub for dinner and enjoying the leisurely stroll home after a pint or three. He learnt that Huw, a former teacher, had taken up the job at the refuge after his wife passed away and his three adult children all emigrated—two in Canada, one in Australia. "Dogs don't ask questions, they accept you no matter who you are, or where you are in life."

Most nights he was asleep by nine. He didn't think he was getting much thinking done at all, but then again he wasn't dwelling on what might be happening in Midsomer either. For the first time in years he felt like he could breathe, really breathe.

On Thursday afternoon, after settling Holly and Mick back in their kennels, Ben returned to the house to find Geraint waiting in the kitchen.

"Sorry, I couldn't get back up sooner, had a defendant decide—against all advice, mind you—that they wanted to change their plea to 'not guilty'." Geraint sighed.

Ben nodded in sympathy; he understood the work that created for all involved in the proceedings. "Is that the case?" Ben nodded at a thick folder lying on the table near Geraint's hand, and sincerely hoped Geraint didn't want him to have a look at it. He felt a pang of guilt at his selfishness.

"Oh, goodness, no." Geraint stared at Ben in surprise. "I'd not do that to you on your holiday!" He laid a hand on the folder. "It _is_ for you though." He passed it to Ben, who accepted it cautiously, listening as Geraint explained. "I did a little digging_—_my PA's also a pretty resourceful fellow_—_and it's not too late for you to move into another field. Your policing background opens up a number of options you could move into with a minimum of fuss, and there's a variety of careers outside of that where your experience would give you a solid grounding and perspective—if you decided you wanted to requalify in another area. Thought it might be useful to at least have something to consider or reject, and if anyone ever asks, you can honestly say you looked." Geraint grinned at him unexpectedly. "Of course, you could always chuck the whole lot in the fire and I'd be none the wiser."

Ben laughed. "I promise to at least look at it before I do that. Thanks, this is ... thoughtful of you. God knows when I'd've got round to it myself_—_if I did."

Geraint shrugged. "If all it does is give you things to cross off a list, then it's achieved something. And if you need a place to think there's always room here, and there'll always be dogs that need a walk."

Huw came into the kitchen from the wash house at the rear. With a groan, Geraint pushed himself up from the chair. "Business calls," he explained to Ben. "The paperwork for this place is never-ending. Sometimes it makes criminal law look easy." Geraint and Huw disappeared into the office, with Huw complaining about some new regulation.

Ben checked the clock; there were still a couple of hours before he needed to get ready for dinner, so he put the kettle on and started to flick through the folder.

It was a pretty comprehensive collection: training courses, university courses, and suggested career pathways. Ben scrubbed his hands over his face. Being closer to forty than thirty, he didn't know if he had the desire or stamina (or the resources) for the study to gain the minimum entry requirements, let alone for the three, possibly four years of study after that. And those options where he could fall back on his policing weren't all that appealing_—_retail security, fraud investigation, security guard_—_and he would still have to study further to be a security guard anyway!

He knew he'd look through the folder at least once more before he headed home on Sunday. He felt a little disappointed though; a part of him had hoped something would leap out.

As soon as they opened the door to the pub that night it was clear all was not well. Usually by this time the dinner rush was well under way and the swell of chatter and laughter rushed out the opened door. But tonight it was a hushed, tense murmur and Ben's copper's nose started twitching. A group of unfamiliar young men were standing at the bar, their body language intimidating and aggressive. He could see Joe behind the taps, his jaw and shoulders rigid. Ben had found Joe to be warm and welcoming, but the person he was looking at now was the complete opposite. A quick scan showed Ben that everyone else in the pub appeared to be intensely interested in the wood grain and assorted carvings on their tables; not one person was looking towards the bar or the young men. Ben took a step into the pub, but his progress was halted when Huw took hold of his elbow and drew him back.

"They're Cantwell's lads; every one of them has been banged up at some point or other, for one thing or another. They'll punch you soon as look at you and not give you the chance to say you're a copper. Best let 'em drink what they came to and leave when they're ready. No-one gets hurt that way."

Ben stared at Huw and Geraint, who simply nodded his agreement with Huw. Ben shook his head slowly, surprised at Geraint's non–action and seeming acceptance of the situation. He knew this type of lout; sadly, the Midsomer villages had their share of bullies and thugs, but eighteen years on the force, most of those in Midsomer, had taught Ben a thing or two. He walked confidently up to the bar.

"Pint of Brains Bitter, please Joe." Ben turned his attention to the lad next to him. He estimated he was barely eighteen, though he was good couple of inches taller than Ben—and broader. "Evening gentlemen, I don't think I've seen you here before? Ah, thanks Joe." Ben raised his glass to the men before turning back to the bar and catching Joe's eye; he took a long drink.

Huw and Geraint watched nervously as the four men moved to surround Ben. The volume of conversation in the pub had risen, and all eyes were now focused on what was happening at the bar. Ben was chatting with Joe, his body language exuding a calm that Joe picked up on, and he relaxed enough to laugh at whatever Ben was saying to him.

There was a small cry from one of the tables as the largest of the Cantwell boys moved closer to Ben, clenching and unclenching his fists. Ben turned towards the sound and the movement, and looked _past_ the man as he loomed closer.

"Everything all right, Bethan?" he asked the woman who'd cried out. It was enough to make two of the Cantwells turn and look, though not the one nearest to Ben. Recognising they were now the focus of attention for everyone in the pub, except Ben it seemed, the eldest Cantwell grabbed the arms of the two brothers closest to him and dragged them away, leaving the youngest to chase after them. In their haste to get away from the now-accusing eyes of the pub crowd, one tripped and one banged into the door frame. No one laughed, and the four lads quickly disappeared down the hill.

Joe stared wide–eyed at Ben. "They'll be after you."

Ben shook his head. "Not the likes of them; for all their posturing and attitude they like to be 'unseen'. And now you know what to do next time they come in, if they ever come in again. Take away their 'power', and they'll go away – there's no fun it for them; you might want to spread the word. Now..." Ben smiled brightly. "...what's tonight's special?"

Ben headed back to Causton late Sunday afternoon, but not before he'd arranged with Geraint that he'd try to get back most weekends to help with the dogs, and visit Granny Jones. He was still no wiser as to what he wanted to do, but he _was _more certain than ever that it was time to move on.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

It didn't help that the criminal classes in Midsomer all appeared to have left for a warmer climate. It had been over a year since work had been so quiet, and reviewing cold case files was not Ben's idea of job satisfaction. He was unfocused and John, perhaps sensing there was more to it than the lack of crime, asked Ben about his leave.

Ben was grateful for the distraction. He briefly told John about Granny Jones, but focused on the dogs and the refuge, knowing this would have a greater resonance for John. When John asked, Ben pulled up the photos of Holly, Mick, Beau and Cooper he'd posted on Facebook for Gail to see; they'd kept in touch after she'd transferred to Brighton.

"I should let you know that I'll be going back there on weekends as often as I can; it was nice to feel ... it felt good to help out family." Ben decided there was little point in mentioning his restlessness, or the folder from Geraint, as he doubted he could answer any of the questions he suspected John would ask.

John wondered how Ben had originally intended to finish his statement: useful? wanted? needed? For several weeks now he'd had the sense that things weren't quite as they had been with Ben; something had thrown him off kilter. It hadn't affected his standard of work—yet—but it had caused a slight shift in his behaviour. He'd noticed it first in Ben's interactions with Kate. For a while there'd been a fair degree of playful banter, with Kate usually coming out just ahead on 'points', not that Ben ever seemed to mind, and John had begun to wonder if there wasn't more going on there. Then it abruptly took a step back. He'd put that down to Ben possibly asking Kate out and being tactfully (or, knowing Kate, not so tactfully if he'd timed it wrong) knocked back. It was when Sarah commented that Ben seemed a little withdrawn the last time she'd spoken to him that he started to take careful notice.

Listening to Ben now, John recognised what was happening: Ben wasn't the first police officer to feel that way and he wouldn't be the last. The best John could do was to be there, to understand and support Ben in any way he could. He took a gamble. "Sounds like a rewarding way to fill your days. Sometimes, in life, you just have to take a leap of faith."

Ben looked up at him quizzically. John gave him an enigmatic smile and focused back on the file in front of him.

The phones finally started ringing, but the case wasn't to prove difficult or even distressing. There were no bodies, no missing children—lots of missing cigarettes and chocolates though. Yet the heaviness in Ben was unmistakeable. John knew something had to give soon; he hoped it wasn't Ben, but he was concerned—concerned enough to call Tom.

Tom couldn't shed any light on Ben's situation, despite their infrequent, though lengthy, emails. Tom admitted, to his shame, that he actually knew very little about Ben's background or family beyond the few snippets Ben had let slip from time to time. Ben had always seemed reluctant to talk and Tom hadn't liked to push.

Tom had put Joyce on the phone, as he knew she'd always had a knack for getting more information out of people, and suspected Ben had let down his guard a few times. But that hadn't really given John any great insight either. Joyce told him what she knew: that both parents were out of his life by the time he was in his early teens—sorry, no, she didn't know if his father was still alive—and that he only had his grandmother here. John had thanked them both and promised on Sykes's life to visit them in Jersey during the next summer holidays.

He'd have to get his answers another way.

John knew Sarah had a major school board meeting coming up; he invited Ben over for dinner. "Those damn meetings can go 'til midnight. I'd appreciate the company." If Ben had seen through his flimsy ploy he didn't say anything, and accepted the invitation graciously.

It was a very relaxed meal, with trays on knees in front of the telly.

"Sarah hates this, but every now and then you have to do it, don't you think?"

"Far better than having to catch up on the game and possibly hearing the score before hand," Ben had justified.

The game had the benefit, as far as Ben was concerned, of limiting the amount they talked, and the topic when they did.

However, once the game was over and the kitchen tidied, Ben knew the real reason he'd been invited over would come out. John hadn't even sat back down when he started.

"So how long have you been feeling fed up with the job?" John rested his head against the back of the couch as Sykes took up position with his head and paws on John's shoes.

Ben sighed. "I didn't know I was until after the Midsomer Pastures case. It just hit me after ... after your anniversary dinner. I'm restless, frustrated, I feel like I'm not really going anywhere. I know most would say the easiest solution would be to apply for my Inspector's exams and take the next step, even if it meant leaving Midsomer, but ..."

"It's still _'the job'_." John studied Ben carefully.

"Yes." Ben finally admitted. "It's _'the job'_ —and it's Midsomer."

_That _raised a look of shocked surprise from John. Ben nodded. "How do I go anywhere here or do anything different when I'm regularly interacting with people who've known me most of my life? Whatever I tried would be met with comment—no doubt _well meant_ but a quiet judgement nonetheless. Am I burnt out? I didn't think I was old enough or cynical enough to be burnt out?"

"Ben, on the whole, cynicism has little to do with it." John reassured him. "Though, were you a deeply cynical person, I suspect this day would have come long ago. We all have our limits, and when and how we reach them. It sounds like you've run into your proverbial brick wall."

Ben sat back in the couch, his beer forgotten on the coffee table. He let his eyes drift to the ceiling and exhaled softly. "I think a small part of me was hopeful it was something that would pass and I could shake it off and move on. I'm still no wiser as to what I should do or where I'm meant to go."

John leant forward and rested his beer next to Ben's. Leaning on his knees, he asked, "Have you considered applying for a training post? You've got valuable skills to pass on and your local knowledge would be a major asset."

"I think my disillusionment with the job would be too obvious and, skills and knowledge aside, that would benefit no–one." Ben slumped forward, his elbows also resting on his knees and went on to tell John about the information Geraint had gathered, and how little appeal that also held.

John listened quietly, his lips pursed as he thought. Finally he asked, "If you could do any one thing, and only one thing, right at this very moment—and it has to be a job, no lazing on golden beaches with your every need catered for—what would you do?"

"Run a pub." It came out without thought or hesitation and Ben blinked in astonishment at himself.

"And do you have the resources or the connections to do that?"

"Not at this very moment," Ben drawled, surprised that John hadn't laughed out loud, and was, in fact, taking this all very seriously.

"Then maybe that's what you have to work towards. Set yourself a goal, then draw and follow the map to get there."

Sykes woke with a yip and bolted for the door. John and Ben heard the door opening and Sykes's excited whimpers as Sarah came in. She looked at the two men hunched conspiratorially over the coffee table and smiled. "And what are you two discussing so intently—the overthrow of the Chief Constable?"

"Cartography." John answered cryptically.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

It wasn't an immediate solution, and it didn't change the fact that Ben still had to front up to Causton Police Station every work day. However, having a goal to work towards helped Ben feel a bit better about his situation. As a result, he was brighter and a little more focused, and John was satisfied with that.

Over the following weeks, Ben kept up a constant email exchange with Geraint, and turned up at the farm every free weekend, as promised. It was during one weekend visit that he first mentioned his chat with John, and the idea of running a pub. Jokingly, he asked Geraint if he knew of any pubs going cheap in the area.

Geraint stared at Ben. "I don't know of any pubs," he started slowly, "but I do know Joe would take you on staff at the drop of a hat. He'll tell anyone who'll listen how you sorted out the Cantwells that night, and how valuable a skill he thinks that is in a barman."

Geraint paused to gauge Ben's reaction; he had his full attention. "Joe's also coming up for 65, and has been talking about cutting back on his workload and bringing in a manager. You'd need to pass the exam for the National Certificate for Personal Licence Holders, though I doubt it'd be too difficult for you. Why don't you head down and talk to Joe? You might just be the solution to each other's plan."

Ben was already on his feet.

On Sunday night, back in his flat in Causton, Ben re-examined his situation. Financially he wasn't rich, though he had a reasonable amount in the bank and his flat was his to sell or lease; _thank you Gran, for that wee legacy._ With no rent to pay at Geraint's, estimated minimal outgoings, and having never been one for excessive luxuries or the annual overseas holiday, Ben surmised he'd be able to live quite comfortably, even on a part-time barman's wage. Working with the dogs would keep him busy away from the pub, and Geraint had hinted—more than hinted, really—that the farm manager's job could be his if he wanted it after Huw retired.

When he recognised how calm he was about the whole situation, Ben realised he'd already made his decision without doing so consciously. However, he still needed to talk to John in private before taking the next step; he owed John that courtesy.

"And you're sure this is what you want?"

Ben removed the last of the dishes from the table. He'd seized an opportunity to invite John over for dinner when John had grumbled about Sarah attending yet _another_ evening meeting at the school.

Placing the coffee on the table, Ben sat down with a sigh. "I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I know I have to give it a shot. It's a guaranteed job as the pub's manager, Geraint's offered free accommodation at the farm in exchange for helping Huw out as often as I can, and Joe's happy for it to be a year in the first instance; it gives us both the chance to step back if it doesn't work out. If it does work out, I'll resign from the force, and if it doesn't, then I still have a position to come back to at CID. Who knows, maybe the break will be all I need to get reenergised and refocused."

"You know you wouldn't necessarily come back to your current position? That you might find yourself on the transfer list instead?"

"It's a gamble I'm willing to take."

"Then I wish you luck, and I'll fully support your application for special leave without pay. I know we didn't get off to the best start, and there was a lot of adjusting on both our parts—well, perhaps yours more than mine..." He gave Ben an abashed grin. "...but you will be missed."

Ben gave a bemused laugh. "I haven't gone yet."

"No." John was sombre. "But you've set your course. It won't be long until the wind's at your back and you head for foreign shores."

"It's Wales, not New South Wales." Ben chuckled.

John grinned back. "Oh, for Pete's sake, can't you let me wax lyrical for once?"

A month later, Geraint met Ben as he drove up to the farm house once again. This time he wasn't heading back Sunday evening. Geraint was perplexed by how little Ben had packed in the car.

"Two suitcases, one box and a carry–all? Is that it?" Geraint peered in the back seat in case he'd overlooked anything.

"That's the lot," Ben confirmed.

"Do you plan on making several trips back and forth then? Seems a bit daft."

Ben shook his head and grinned. "I bought only what I needed—clothes, laptop, music—anything else I think I desperately need I can buy or learn to live without."

"And your flat, your furniture?"

"The flat's being leased fully furnished to the new DC who's been transferred in—young woman from Oxford, Jenny, no Julie, Lockhart. Seems there's been some shuffling around up there and it's all very disrupted at the moment; there were nine applications from the Oxfordshire constabulary. Wouldn't like to be in their Chief Super's shoes right now."

Geraint's laughter rang clear through the valley. "No, I don't suppose it would be pleasant. Come on inside. Huw's out with some of the dogs, but he's well pleased at the thought of not being here on his own. And Joe's ready to sign anything he needs for you to sit your exam so he can get you on board. You ready to get started?"

"I'll never be more ready. Let's go."

*****_ fin _******

Endnote: The poem fragment that pops into Ben's head is from W.H. Auden's _Night Mail_


End file.
